I Thought I Knew Myself, Somehow You Knew Me More
by broadwanime
Summary: And that's how Stiles became aware of his unintentional role as pack mother. (Though not how he became aware that Isaac really was his favorite - that would come later.)


Here's the thing: Stiles really didn't intend on becoming den mother for a pack of unruly teenage werewolves. He really didn't intend on becoming a den mother, _period._

It's just that, one day, Stiles finds himself picking out their popcorn kernels from the couch. He starts cleaning up their plates after the dinner he'd painstakingly made to fit everyone's tastes. He's fussing over them to drink more water while they train because everyone knows how gross dehydration is, to stop breaking each other's bones while they wrestle. He even brings a freaking first aid kit to pack meetings and keeps it in his car at all times, chock full of stinky herbs and Spider-Man band-aids (because there's not a kid in the world that doesn't want to be Spider-Man, though Stiles may be a bit biased).

It doesn't really occur to him what he's doing for a long while, not until Pack Movie Night the Twenty-Fourth. Everyone is all snuggled up and trying to break in the new couch. Well, the wolves are, and by the wolves, Stiles actually means the cuddle puppy brigade. Even the human ones are a part of it. They squish together across the furniture, heads lolling on shoulders and arms around each other, their legs tucked under the largest throw blanket they had at IKEA. Stiles only wishes he had a camera, because aren't they just the most precious things you ever did see?

Stiles, meanwhile, is bustling about in the kitchen. It had taken a few weeks, but they'd eventually convinced Derek to call up a contractor and fix up the Hale house. It wasn't quite the beauty that it was (because somebody let Erica pick out the wallpaper and honestly, that was the worst idea in the history of interior decorating), but it had become home to their ragamuffin pack. Stiles doesn't have an official room in the house, but it's the unspoken truth that the kitchen is his. He hadn't made anything special tonight, just a couple of pies. He hums as he cuts them into perfectly even slices. He's tempted to break out a ruler just to make sure - he _really_ doesn't want to deal with them whining (and by them, he means Jackson).

Once he's satisfied, Stiles grabs a couple of plates and carefully makes his way to the living room. "Dessert, everyone!" he calls out, sliding the plates onto the small end table in front of the couch.

The puppies all perk up at that. Erica actually pulls her arms out from where they'd been firmly wrapped around Boyd and makes grabby hands through the air. Stiles huffs in laughter. "You can wait your turn," he tells her. "Some of us can't carry eight plates at once."

"There are only seven of us," Boyd points out, glaring a little at Stiles for interrupting universal snuggle time.

"Seven of you, plus me," Stiles chides.

Allison tilts her head, spilling her hair across Scott's shoulder. "What about Derek?"

"His royal alpha-ness has already informed me he doesn't like lemon meringue pie, which, of course, means he has absolutely no taste buds. Also, no dessert for him."

(Actually, Stiles had already given him chocolate chip cookies because he's the _alpha._ Maybe not the best one, but the title alone earns him some cookies. Or maybe that's just for dealing with Jackson.)

"But I don't like lemon meringue, either," Jackson pouts.

Stiles throws his hands in the air. "Those of you without good taste can forego eating the pie."

"But I do like pie." Jackson twists his fingers through Lydia's hair and it's funny how that doesn't make Stiles want to hurl anymore. Eight years is an awful long time to be in love with someone, and somehow the last three months have been enough to start patching up that particular hole in his heart. Jackson continues on, "Couldn't we have, like, cherry or something?"

"It wasn't your turn to pick out the dessert," Stiles scolds while he walks into the kitchen to gather more plates. He distributes them amongst the cuddle puppies, making sure everyone has a utensil with which to actually eat their pie.

Jackson, despite his protestations, snags a plate for himself, though he glares at everyone rather grumpily. "Boyd's slice is bigger than mine."

"It is _not._" Stiles sets his hands on his hips. "Stop complaining, Whittemore, and just friggin' eat your pie."

Jackson opens his mouth, but it's Scott who whines, "Isaac has more meringue than me!"

"He does appear to have a centimeter more meringue than the rest of us," Lydia pipes up, because she's a goddess but also a pot stirrer. An _evil_ stirrer of the pots.

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't keep a headache journal, but if he did, he's fairly certain every migraine would start with whiny pack puppies who complain about absolutely friggin' everything.

"Well, duh," Erica snorts. "Everyone knows Mom likes Isaac best."

The pack makes a mumble of agreement at that, though Isaac goes bright red and gives Erica a painful jab to the ribs with his elbow.

Stiles, for his part, merely stares at them with his mouth hanging open. "Wait… _what?"_

"You're the mom, dude," Scott provides helpfully around a mouthful of pie (and best friend or no, seeing the chewed up food in his mouth while he talks never stops being gross).

"You do kind of… look after everyone," Allison says with a small, helpless shrug.

"Case in point," Boyd agrees, half lifting his plate of pie.

Stiles is not ready to give in, yet, though, because this is simply ridiculous. "That's, that's just - That's just _pie,_ that's not - "

And it's Isaac who gives him the look, those bright blue eyes burning a hole through Stiles underneath a mop of curls, and somewhere between making Stiles' heart thump faster and his cheeks going pink, it all comes crashing down on him at once.

"Oh," Stiles barely manages. "Oh my god."

"It was the Spider-Man band-aids, wasn't it?" Derek drawls from the doorway, holding a half-eaten cookie in his hand.

And that's how Stiles became aware of his unintentional role as pack mother. (Though not how he became aware that Isaac really was his favorite - that would come later.)

* * *

The realization that he's become the co-parent of a pack of werewolves opens a lot of doors for Stiles. Not ones with Derek, because it doesn't matter that he's hotter than the surface of the sun, he's still kind of a dick, and those threats to rip out his throat are still pretty convincing.

Mostly, it allows him to fully embrace his title. He starts nagging them all about their homework (they nag right back, the cheeky bastards), and he moves from making dinners to packing lunches. He'd caught Isaac with a bag of cold pizza one day - and only that. As if _that_ was a suitable lunch for a growing werewolf. He should have some vegetables at the very least. It's as bad as his father, honestly.

So he starts making Isaac sandwiches, which means he has to start making everybody else sandwiches, too, because they're pushy little buggers who have to everything exactly the same. Stiles pointedly doesn't cut off the crusts - he has to draw the line somewhere.

He wishes he would've thought of that before he agreed to go shopping with Erica, though. He came back unable to feel his legs, arms, or any of his limbs, really, and unable to say anything other than _sale_ or _clearance._ He hadn't been expecting it to be so epic. It might actually be better if he went shopping with Lydia. On second thought, Stiles is drawing the line at all shopping. Ever.

Stiles doesn't make a fuss about them breaking into his room. He actually gets worried if he doesn't see them all at least once a week. It's not like they all actually need him or anything - Boyd is probably the most self-sufficient werewolf on the face of the planet. Still, if he doesn't show up for a cup of Stiles' special hot chocolate (just add nutmeg), Stiles knows something's up.

Or if Derek doesn't show up to glower at him from his bed and growl about how he doesn't even know why he's here (which Stiles knows is just secret code for, "It's been a really rough week and I just need some time to myself and also your stellar grilled cheese" except he might be exaggerating on the grilled cheese part), then Stiles shows up on the Hale doorstep with his first aid kit and chocolate chip cookies.

He never has to worry about Jackson appearing at his house. The boy groans and bitches as much as Derek does, but he can't resist Stiles' cooking. Stiles doesn't get to cook at home as much as he'd like with the sheriff's weird hours, but he finds himself up to his elbows in food for the pack. For Jackson, he always makes sure to have something difficult and complicated at the ready. Not because Stiles wants to show off (much), but because Jackson needs to know he's worth the time and effort.

Scott, luckily, is not nearly so demanding. All he needs is a bowl of mashed potatoes or macaroni and cheese, warm comfort foods easily shared over video games or the Spider-Man trilogy (though Stiles seriously prefers Andrew Garfield - something he will never tell Scott who still hasn't gotten over that stupid kiss in the rain. Stiles is certain he's already gotten Allison to reenact it with him).

For Lydia and Allison, he makes truffles and chocolate strawberries, the perfect snack for making charts and lists about magical herbs, full moons and spells. A How-To-Survive-If-You're-Surrounded-By-Werewolves- And-All-Other-Supernatural-Creatures-Ever kind of deal. Stiles sometimes wonders if they actually live on the Hellmouth. Of course, chocolate is also ideal for when they sprawl across Stiles' bed and start talking about boys. Stiles staunchly does _not _participate in said boy talk, despite Lydia's looks whenever Isaac comes up which what, what?

Isaac's not… Stiles doesn't…

It's complicated?

Okay, it's not so much complicated as much as it is a teen romantic comedy, with Stiles in the role of unrequited love interest number seventeen. He's the guy who pines - he's Ducky. He learned that lesson with Lydia, and now it's slamming in the face with Isaac. At the end of the day, Isaac is still gonna dance the night away with someone hotter, smarter, stronger - someone better than Stiles. And Stiles will be sitting in the back of the gym wondering, _'What if…'_

It's not okay. It might never be okay. But Stiles will deal with that when it comes. Later.

For now, he'll stick with this: sitting in his computer chair attempting to finish his chemistry homework while Isaac eats a peanut butter and nutella sandwich on his bed (because you cannot say you've lived until you've had nutella, goddamnit, and Isaac _did_ eat his vegetables).

Sure, if he's gonna exist in the friend zone, he'd much rather be in the bed next to the object of his unrequited affections. But Stiles doesn't trust his teenage hormones not to fuck everything up, or Isaac's werewolf senses to kick in with Stiles' boner.

So he sits here, doodling on the corners of his stupid homework while they discuss the possibility of Danny joining the pack.

"It might be nice to have another human on our side," Isaac says idly.

"Yeah, but do you really think he'll keep walking on the bipedal side of life?" Stiles snorts.

Oh, Stiles can just _hear _that adorable frown behind him. Slowly, Isaac asks, "What do you mean?"

"I just - " Stiles sighs and gives his mechanical pencil a few extra clicks. "Everyone's determined to be so special. To be some sort of superhuman."

"You've got Allison and Lydia," Isaac points out.

"Allison's an Olympic ranked archer, and Lydia's a math goddess. Actually, she's a goddess, period. I don't even have to be in love with her anymore to know that."

Isaac goes quiet behind him, and Stiles hopes he's just enjoying his sandwich and not about to - "What about you?"

Stiles closes his eyes and clicks his pencil a couple of times. He'd really hoped to avoid _that_ particular question. He focuses on keeping his breathing steady, so Isaac won't be able to hear the telltale pitter patter of his heartbeat. Finally, Stiles opens his eyes and tries to focus on ionic bonds while he babbles, "What about me?"

He can hear Isaac shift against the covers of his bed. "I mean... what about you?"

Stiles bites his lip and fiddles with his pencil. "I'm just, I'm just me, you know? This average guy. Like, average beyond average. Which is fine, really. It's cool. It's all good to me. Somebody's gotta be the bottom of the food chain, and it might as well be me, I guess."

"You really think like that?" Isaac asks behind him, and Stiles simply shrugs.

"That's how it's always seemed to me," he admits.

Stiles feels a sudden heat prickling at the back of his neck. He turns in his seat to find that Isaac isn't just behind him, but _right_ behind him, looking even more like a concerned puppy than usual. Like, he might be giving Scott a run for his money right now (and man, is it ever distracting).

"W-What?" Stiles manages to stutter. "Was the sandwich not up to speed or - ?"

"That," Isaac says. "That."

Like that makes any kind of sense. "That... what?" Stiles draws out slowly.

"That. The worry and the sandwich making and -" It's strange to see Isaac so frustrated over something, his words in aggravated spurts and eyes glinting with golden frustration. "How can you say you're just you when you're - _you?"_

Stiles blinks, tries to back up in his computer chair, and mostly succeeds in hitting his back against his desk. "Are you sure we're talking about the same me, here?"

Isaac leans in even closer to Stiles, face pinched with determination. "Don't you see it? You take care of us."

"Yeah, sure," Stiles laughs nervously. "The whole mom thing, or whatever. But it's not like you actually _need_ me to - "

"We do. We really, really do. Derek may be our Alpha, but you're... You take care of us in ways he can't. Because he chose us once, and now he's stuck with us for life, no matter what. You _keep_ choosing us. That's the point."

Stiles wondered when had Isaac's hand moved to his shoulder. How the hell had he missed that?

"No one else would stay," Isaac continues softly. "Most would run. Try to kill us or sell us out. They wouldn't lie to their fathers for us."

Stiles ducks his head and bites his lip. "I was just -"

"Just being you." Isaac tilts his head and gives a soft smile. "Only you would invite a werewolf over for homework and Star Wars marathons. Or make them peanut butter and nutella sandwiches."

"Yeah, well, I only do that for you," Stiles snorts. His eyes suddenly grow wide and he bites into his lower lip so hard that it threatens to bleed.

Isaac blinks. "What?"

"Nothing!" Stiles squeaks. "Nothing at all! Forget I said anything. I should, um, finish my math - chemistry - my homework and all that, and, and you - you need another sandwich, or maybe - ?" Stiles bites hard into his lip again to shut that godforsaken trap of his.

Isaac simply stares at him like, like how Peter Parker looks at Gwen Stacy. Despite his rousing speech, Stiles still doesn't believe himself _nearly_ cool enough to be Gwen Stacy (or nearly worth Isaac's attention in the first place).

Stiles closes his eyes tightly and whispers, "Can we just drop it? Please?"

Isaac doesn't move. Stiles can still feel that werewolf heat inches from his face, and piercing blue eyes straight out of a romance novel boring straight into places Stiles desperately doesn't want him. At last, he pulls away, retreating back to Stiles' bed. "The sandwich was good," Isaac murmurs.

Stiles chokes on his laughter that really isn't much like laughter at all. "Thanks," he mumbles. "My mom, she, uh, used to make them for me."

Things go quiet for a long while, save for the scratch of Stiles' pencil and the tension between them buzzing like an insistent bee. Stiles hadn't meant to say that, or about the other thing which will hopefully never be mentioned again. He may babble a lot, but he has rules, selected topics blocked off with mental orange cones and "Do Not Enter" signs. With Isaac, Stiles can feel his control slip, and suddenly they're in awkward conversation time because Stiles has said too much.

It's funny, he can't think of anything to say now. It's just a long, long stretch of discontented silence. Stiles is sure a pig has suddenly taken flight somewhere. Finally, he opens his mouth to give some stilted small talk -

"I don't remember my mom," Isaac whispers. "But my dad - before he - he, uh - "

Stiles' pencil goes still on his paper. Slowly, he turns in his computer chair to watch Isaac pick at his comforter, head of curls bowed down. "My dad - he used to make me peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Cut into triangles with the crusts cut off. Sometimes, sometimes, he'd…"

"You don't have to," Stiles says quietly, rising from his chair and walking over to the bed.

"I want to." Isaac finally looks up at him, and that look must have been engineered specifically to make Stiles' heart melt and his knees go weak.

"Okay." Stiles sits on the edge of his bed, rubs a hand across Isaac's ankle, offers him a small smile. "Okay. Tell me about him."

Isaac offers him a watery blue smile. That's okay; Stiles didn't need his heart, anyway.

Isaac talks, and he talks, and then, he talks some more. It's like a flood he can no longer hold at bay. The stories slip out of him; stories about baseball games and chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, about black eyes and shattered dinner plates, about a softly whispered, wailing scream of, "I love you." He just talks.

Somehow, Stiles moves from sitting on the edge of his bed to snuggled up right next to Isaac, tucked under the other boy's arm with a head of curls resting atop his chest. Stiles isn't sure how or when this happened, nor when his fingers moved to pet softly at Isaac's scalp. He thinks of snatching them back for a moment, but the way Isaac sighs against his chest makes his hand stay put. He doesn't move at all. He just listens.

(And if Stiles' shirt becomes suspiciously wet and starts to smell of saltwater, well, no one says a thing.)

They eventually fall asleep like that, still clad in jeans and t-shirts atop the covers. What does Stiles need a comforter for when he has Isaac and his werewolf heat? As his eyes slip closed, he reminds himself that this will not become a regular thing, because the universe doesn't turn in Stiles' favor. Isaac will probably be gone by morning.

* * *

The sun filters in its usual way through Stiles' bedroom, creeping through the cracked window to dance its merry, unwelcome jig on Stiles' face. He groans and tries to lift his arm to swat it away. The problem is, he can't move his arms. Memories of glowing yellow eyes and sharpened talons causes him to stiffen, his eyes flying open in terror. With consciousness comes the reminder that the Kanima is gone and dealt with. Stiles forces himself to relax a little.

Except, you know - he still can't really move.

The reason for that makes himself known by tightening his grip on Stiles' body, snuffling a (thankfully not cold and wet) nose into Stiles' collarbone. He finally recognizes the head of curls resting atop his chest, and he should feel relieved. No kidnapping, no tied up with rope in his sleep.

Just lying in bed with the guy he really likes. A lot. Whose head is snuggled close to Stiles' rapidly beating heart, who can probably smell the way he feels, who -

"You should go back to sleep," Isaac murmurs from his chest.

Stiles jerks at the sudden sound and tries to flail his arms about. Isaac chuckles atop him, the sound reverberating pleasantly through Stiles. A little too pleasantly, actually (he is a teenage boy after all). Stiles feels his face burn red, unnecessary with all the werewolf limbs holding him in place.

Isaac shuffles impossibly closer, and Stiles is supposed to be able to talk at the drop of the hat, really, he is, so this whole being inarticulate thing should just fall off a cliff right now.

"I-Isaac," Stiles squeaks. "Buddy, seriously, not that I'm not - My dad might - "

Isaac sighs. He still doesn't pull away, just props his chin up on Stiles' chest to look up at him. He should not be that attractive from this angle, except, of course, he totally is. It's not fair by any standards of the imagination.

"Do you want me to go?" Isaac murmurs.

"No!" Okay, maybe said that a little too fast, Stilinski. "I just, um... I just don't want you to get in trouble. That's all."

Yeah. Really. That's all. Complete honesty. (Except for the part where, wow, Stiles could never let Isaac go ever again if that were actually possible.)

"Oh." Isaac shifts his head down again, and Stiles allows himself two seconds run his fingers down from that floppy, perfect hair to the nape of Isaac's neck. Isaac murmurs wordlessly into Stiles' chest. Stiles tries not to let his heartbeat get too loud, knows that it must already be slamming away underneath Isaac's ear.

"Can I just - stay here? For five more minutes?" Isaac mumbles.

Stiles swallows down the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Sure. Five more minutes." He can totally handle five more minutes, right? Right.

Five minutes later, and Stiles is dying from indecision. Because does he fall back asleep out of sheer comfort, or does he (gently) shove Isaac off of him, or does he pull Isaac up close so Stiles can ki -

Oh god, this was a terrible idea. An absolutely freaking terrible idea.

There's no way Isaac _doesn't_ know, now. Stiles is practically holding up a sign with his heartbeat alone, not to mention the flushed cheeks and whatever he must smell like. Oh god, oh god.

Isaac lifts his head and Stiles thinks he's going to pull away, going to get out of bed and walk away as he really, _really_ should. Only, Isaac starts moving closer, hovering over Stiles and his face is, like, mere centimeters away and if Stiles were to move in just right now -

That, of course, is when the sheriff starts up the stairs. Within seconds, Stiles finds himself alone in his room with his jeans too tight, the lingering heat of _what if_ still hanging over his head, window open and his dad offering him pancakes. For the fifth time in a row. He should really respond to that.

"Yeah. Yeah, pancakes sound great." Stiles pauses, then quickly adds, "Sugar free syrup for you, though. And no bacon. Unless it's turkey bacon. Which I know for a fact we don't have right now."

The sheriff grumbles on about being a grown man able to make his own food choices, thanks very much. He turns to leave, but stops in the doorway, turning around to eye Stiles. "You all right there, son?"

Stiles gulps and manages, "Oh, yeah, just peachy, honestly. Just gotta, gotta finish up some math homework and all that, you know?"

The sheriff gives him a long look that seems to pierce Stiles through (Stiles has always wondered if it's the same one he gives the perps while he interrogates them). Finally, he sighs (like he's disappointed, like he knew Stiles wouldn't tell him the truth). "All right. Come down soon; the pancakes are getting cold."

Fuck, Stiles hates lying to his father, he hates how necessary it is. At least one thing he said was true: he's fine. Stiles is perfectly peachy.

* * *

Stiles is not okay whatsoever.

Nobody assumed fighting the Alpha Pack was gonna be a walk in the park, but they didn't think it would be this _hard._ Stiles had done his research into packs and territories, and he'd thought he'd found the perfect solution. If Derek fought the Alpha Squared (because the Alpha Alpha just sounded stupid) and managed to beat his psychotic ass fair and square, they would have to leave Beacon Hills with their tails between their legs. It was simple, no?

Except big, bad Deucalion couldn't keep his end of the deal. With a snap of his fingers, the rest of the Alpha Bunch had them surrounded. Luckily for them all, Derek was a cynical bastard and brought his pack, too. It was like something out of West Side Story.

Only, Stiles really didn't sign up to be the one who gets stabbed in the ribcage with a knife. Or in this case, thrown against a tree and have the ever loving full moon kicked out of him.

Seriously, ow.

Kali lashes out and Stiles tries to think straight against the pain. He's trying to keep his vision from blurring, trying to call for help, trying to figure out when the hell it was decided that he was the damsel in distress to beat up. Honestly, just because he was the puny _human_ in the pack doesn't mean that - ow, _ow,_ okay, that might be a broken rib or two.

Or maybe his bruises have bruises. Or his scratches, because god, those toe claws are a bitch. Stiles isn't really clear on how badly he's hurt, only that breathing is hard and he'd really like this to stop right now. That would be awesome. That would be - fuck, _ow._

He can't even work out some witticisms, not at the rate she's pounding him. Her eyes glow bright red in the dark and she bares his teeth in a snarl. Oh, good - maybe they're going to get this over with right now. The claws on her hands have to be more sanitary than the ones on her feet, right? Stiles bets they work faster, too. Shit, he doesn't want to die, not before he's twenty-one or had sex or voted or told Isaac that he -

There's a wild roar somewhere to the left and suddenly, whoa. Hey, Isaac. Where did that guy come from? Dude. Stiles might have a problem because Isaac has freaking muttonchops and fangs and golden eyes, and Stiles' heart is still dancing to a samba beat.

Or maybe that's just the blood loss talking. Or the pain. Stiles really hasn't (can't possibly have) forgotten the pain.

Isaac takes a running leap towards Stiles until he's standing over the other boy, snarling and growling at Kali. Huh. Stiles has never really been fought over literally before. Or fought over ever. No one thought he was worth the time. He closes his eyes and remembers to breathe in, ow, out, in, out, ow. Steady rhythm is a difficult thing. So is staying awake, actually.

When Stiles opens his eyes again, the fight is over and hey, the sky is bluer than he remembers. Prettier, deeper and soulful, almost like -

"Oh. Hey, Isaac," Stiles slurs.

"Hey," Isaac murmurs back.

"Shouldn't you be off fighting, or something?"

Isaac gives him a look. At least, Stiles thinks that's a look. He can't get much past blue and pretty and _here._ "I think Derek has it covered," Isaac says.

"Oh." Stiles blinks slowly. "That's a first."

Isaac smiles. "That's my alpha you're talking about, you know."

Stiles waves his hand in the air. Oh, good, he _can_ still lift his arms, even if feeling isn't so much on the list. "Details, shmetails."

Isaac hums and carefully lifts Stiles' head, cradling the other boy up and against his ribs.

"That's nice," Stiles murmurs. His eyes are falling closed again, the scent of pine and Isaac's laundry soap luring him into sleep, as warm and comforting as a glass of warm milk and his mother's voice singing 'Baby Mine' under her breath…

"Stay awake," Isaac says brusquely, dislodging Stiles' nose from the warmth of his shirt. "I don't know if you're - Stay awake."

But Stiles is really kind of tired, you know…

"I know, I know you are," Isaac murmurs. Oh hey, Stiles is talking aloud without knowing it. Cool.

You know, it would be really bad if Stiles let the cat out of the bag right now, about how Isaac lights up his world and some cheesy shit. It would be all kinds of cliché and awkward and Stiles should really avoid all of that. Good advice from himself.

Isaac chokes above him and Stiles' forehead wrinkles in concern. "You... You okay, buddy? Stiles (consciously) says.

Isaac rubs his thumb underneath Stiles' eye, and Stiles so cannot control the way he leans into it like a cat. "Yeah," Isaac laughs breathlessly. "Yeah, I'm…"

Stiles forces his eyes open, stares up into the blue. "Isaac?"

"It's done," Derek's dark voice says above them. And Stiles knows he's a good guy and everything, but does he have to sound so goddamn ominous (and does the universe hate Stiles more than he initially thought because _seriously_)?

Isaac sighs and ducks his head and it might be the physical trauma but Stiles is convinced more than ever that he doesn't have a bad angle. So not fair.

"He's hurt pretty bad," Isaac tells his alpha. "I don't know how bad, but - bad."

Derek hums and leans in close to Stiles. Who really isn't as injured as everyone seems to think, no matter that it hurts and that he's seeing stars and can't really make sense of what he's saying. Really. He's fine.

"No, you're not," Derek says firmly, and wow, does the alpha actually sound concerned about him? That's weird and different and new.

Derek gives him a look. Stiles doesn't have to see it; he can feel the heat of that glare as clearly as the warmth of Isaac flowing in next to him. "You're pack," he says firmly. And Stiles had known that, but he hadn't _known_ that, and -

"Shut up, Stilinski." It's funny, Stiles never really knew how well he could identify the pack's voices until now. He'd recognize Jackson's angry spit of his last name anywhere.

"We should get him to the hospital," Scott says. Good old, reliable Scott, all concern and best friend-like. "Can you - "

"I've got him," Isaac confirms. He hoists Stiles up, and it's a good thing Stiles is comfortable in his masculinity and is also used to being beat up and carried around like this. Isaac growls and it should scare him, but it feels like a cat's purr. Stiles snuggles into the sound, ignores the protests his ribs give.

"Can I sleep _now,_ Isaac?" Stiles mumbles. "Issat okay?"

Isaac gives him a gentle squeeze. "Yeah. You can sleep now."

It probably wouldn't have mattered what his answer was, because Stiles is already off visiting Mr. Sandman.

* * *

Stiles wakes up in the hospital. He'd recognize the eerie white walls anywhere, the smell already clogging up his nose (and even half asleep and hurting, Stiles is glad he's not a werewolf so the memories of his mother aren't shoved further in his face).

His father is there, sitting in an uncomfortable chair with his hand holding Stiles' like a vice. A warm, comfy vice.

"Hey," Stiles manages.

"Hey," the sheriff whispers hoarsely.

Stiles rubs his thumb along the back of his father's hand. It's smaller than it was when he was five and skinned his knees, but somehow it's just as comforting. "You okay?" he asks.

His father gives a rough laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, kiddo. More than I can say for you."

Stiles scoffs, feels the pull in his ribs and regrets it instantly. "What are you talking about? I'm fit as a fiddle. Maybe a scratched up, slightly broken fiddle, but - "

"Stiles," the sheriff whispers, and Stiles mouth snaps shut.

His father hangs his head and sighs, squeezing Stiles' hand tighter. "Melissa says there's something... Something we need to talk about."

Stiles heartbeat picks up and he swallows thickly. "She's Melissa, now, is she?" he tries to joke.

"Stiles." His father looks at him, and all Stiles can think about is how sorry he is for putting that sadness in his eyes, that worry and concern.

"Can it wait a little longer?" Stiles asks pitifully. "I'm just - I'd really like to sleep some more, and I, I just - "

"Yeah." His father gives him the crooked smile Stiles always sees in the mirror. "Yeah, you can sleep, son." Stiles closes his and slips back under to a softly whispered, "I love you."

When Stiles wakes again, later than anyone would like, he finds out he was right about the ribs. He's also bruised and scratched up to hell. Apparently, he's got one hell of a shiner, or so Mrs. McCall tells him.

His dad comes in after, and Mrs. McCall gives him this look that promises she'll stay if Stiles asked. And she'll never, she'll never be like his - but Stiles is grateful. He shakes his head and waits until she leaves the room.

The story falls out from his lips, the werewolves and the alphas and the hunters, all of it. And while it's nice to no longer be lying to his father, the broken look in his eyes just about breaks Stiles, too.

There's some denial, there, a firm shake of the head and protests about the supernatural. Stiles keeps on, rebuts each logical statement with his own. In the end, there really isn't any other explanation.

_"Jesus,_ kid," his father whispers when Stiles is done. "You've just - You - "

"I know, Dad." Stiles closes his eyes and leans his head back against the pillow. "I know."

"You haven't even graduated high school, yet." His father shakes his head furiously. "I don't understand how you could have - "

"Because we need him to."

Stiles' eyes fly open and he jerks up before he remembers the whole broken ribs, beat to hell and back bit.

Isaac stands in the doorway with hands shoved deep into his pockets. His shoulders are slumped in awkwardness, but his eyes shine with something Stiles can't place.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Isaac continues. "But I just wanted - He helps because we need him to. Because he's good at it."

The sheriff looks a little off-balance to see Isaac in the doorway, but he doesn't run away or point fingers screaming, "WEREWOLF!" Stiles considers this to be a win.

"But he could get hurt," his father says firmly, once he's regained his bearings. He waves at Stiles on the bed and pushes on, "He has gotten hurt. He could even get killed, and - "

"Dad, I'm not - " Stiles protests.

"I know, sir," Isaac says. His fists tighten in his pockets. "Believe me. We're all aware of that." The corner of his mouth quirks up and Stiles catalogues it like he doesn't (does) with the rest of Isaac's smiles. Isaac continues, "But as I'm sure you know, making Stiles listen when you tell him to stay behind is impossible."

His father stares resolutely for a moment longer before bursting into quiet laughter. Stiles does not appreciate being ganged up on whatsoever.

"Traitors," he mutters under his breath. "Both of you."

His dad might not hear his muttered curse, but Isaac does. The taller boy gives a way too charming grin at Stiles, and wow, he probably heard Stiles' heart do a loop-de-loop, too. Stiles ducks his head and looks down at the sheets, pretending to be vastly interested in what the thread count is.

Eventually, the Make Fun of Stiles Hour comes to an end, and Stiles goes to sleep - again. It seems like his time in the hospital lasts forever, but eventually, Stiles gets to go home (or maybe they just got sick of him asking for more blue Jell-O). His dad still hovers close, the worry in his eyes increased exponentially since the big, fat supernatural reveal, but he manages to give Stiles at least a centimeter's worth of space. Which, while not exactly Stiles' ideal, is still something.

Scott comes to visit him first. Normally, this would be the moment where he'd pounce on Stiles, squirming his way under the covers and leeching on to Stiles like he has since they were six years old. Of course, it might aggravate Stiles' everything right now. Instead, Scott fidgets in the doorway like a lost puppy, twiddling his thumbs and big brown eyes darting up from under his floppy hair.

Stiles heaves a dramatic sigh and waves his arm through the air in a graceless gesture. "Get over here, you big palooka," he beckons.

Scott shuffles inside the room and settles on the edge of the bed, his hands folded sadly in his lap.

"Dude. I'm not a freaking china doll." Stiles lifts the corner of his blanket. "Get your ass in here."

Scott opens his mouth to protest, but he can't quite manage it. He needs to know his best friend's all right in the only way he knows how after ten years. He pushes his way under the covers, wraps his arms gently around Stiles, and pulls him close to his chest. Stiles relaxes and presses his nose into Scott's collarbone.

"I'm okay," Stiles murmurs under the serenity of blankets and ten years' worth of bromance (because Scott had insisted friendship didn't cover it, because Scott is a complete and total dorkstar).

"I know." Scott's grip tightens, but he's still ever wary of Stiles' ribs. "Jesus, I know, dude. You gotta stop scaring me like this."

Stiles snorts and rearranges his face against Scott's neck. "I'm the human here, bro. Our town's stuffed with werewolves and kanimas and possibly zombies, and _I'm_ the one who scares you?"

"Yes," Scott replies immediately. He pauses, then amends, "Well, you and Allison. And Allison's dad. He has a gun, you know."

Stiles can't help but laugh at that, only laughing proves painful, even enveloped by comfort as he is now. Scott pulls away at last, but he keeps his fingers on Stiles' arms.

"I'm fine, dude. I swear, I'm fine," Stiles assures once he's done with the wincing (broken ribs for the not so much win). "Just the whole… beaten to shit bit. It's not a big deal."

Scott's face goes hard. Stiles thinks that he must be taking grouchy lessons from Derek because that is so far from the normal one hundred and fifty percent puppy Scott normally rocks.

"It is a big deal," he grouses. "You're pack."

The word still makes Stiles feel all fuzzy on the inside. How is that even possible? He's not even a werewolf.

"Dude, I know, but - "

Scott puts his index finger to Stiles' lips, because Stiles seriously picked the dorkiest dorkstar by the swing sets to be his best friend. Couldn't have picked the saner kids from the sandbox, could he? "Dude - " Stiles tries to protest again, only Scott replaces the finger with his whole hand.

Worst best friend _ever._

"Stiles. There's no arguing with this. You're pack. Done deal. Which means that it matters when you're hurt. It always matters. You're the jelly to my peanut butter, dude."

Stiles knows that Scott's trying his damndest here, but - "Why are you the peanut butter? When was that decided?"

"Stiles," Scott warns.

"Yeah, I get it, I get it - important human here, you'd all miss me if I was gone."

"Speak for yourself."

Stiles jerks in his best friend and blanket cocoon. He glares at the doorway where Jackson stands, arms crossed over his chest and looking as bored as he can. Jackson uses douchebaggery - it's _super effective._

Well, mostly. He's here checking up on Stiles, anyway, which makes it hard to keep up the douchebag act.

Stiles would have appreciated some kind of warning about the extra visitor, though. He was planning on letting his dad have real bacon this weekend, too. Now, not so much. He glowers from his circle of Scott-like comfort. "Ever hear of knocking, Whittemore?"

"Ever hear of staying out of trouble, Stilinski?" Jackson snips back.

Stiles waves a flippant hand. "Tried it once. Got bored."

Jackson raises an eyebrow pointedly at the tangle of limbs and comforter Scott and Stiles make. "Yeah, I bet you'll try anything once," he leers. Stiles rolls his eyes. "Yeah, including being friends with you." He wriggles closer to Scott, leaving an empty space behind him on the bed. "Get in, douchewolf. You know you want to."

Scott gives him a betrayed look at the idea of _Jackson_ joining the cuddle pile. Stiles rolls his eyes again because human or not, he's still the smartest guy in the room. "He's pack, too," he informs his best friend firmly. Stiles lifts his head up and glowers at the doorway. "You coming or what?"

Jackson looks torn between his douchebag roots and the slightly less douchewolf self that Stiles knows he can be (and also from smiling because if anyone gets how big a deal the pack thing is, it's Jackson). Eventually, he does make his way across the room, stopping to kick off his shoes at the glare from Scott. He slides in next to Stiles, tucking his arm underneath Stiles' head and his nose into his neck. Stiles finds himself completely caged in by werewolf heat. It should be too much for him to handle, but, well, he's always been a cuddler.

When he was little, he used to crawl into his parent's bed and place himself smack in the middle of the two of them. He'd wrap his fists into his father's shirt and burrow backwards into the soothing snores of his mother. This feels - not a lot like that, because Stiles is a lot bigger now and Jackson is _definitely_ not his mom - but it feels a little like home anyway. Stiles feels his eyes drifting shut, and he mumbles, "I have broken ribs, you know."

"I know, Stiles," Scott murmurs close to his face.

"Would you two just shut up and sleep?" Jackson grumbles into Stiles' hair.

Stiles _hates_ actually listening to Jackson, but he falls anyway, pulled under into blissful slumber.

* * *

Stiles is way too warm. He scrunches his forehead and grumbles, trying to kick the blanket off of him to get some blessed air, only to find that he's pinned down to his mattress.

"Gwuh?" He forces his eyes open to a squint and discovers that his room is far more occupied than he left it last night. His bed's not all that big (he'd _told_ his dad that he'd needed the king size), so Boyd and Erica have settled for snuggling against the bed frame on the floor. Lydia seems to have deemed the floor unworthy and settled for sprawling across the comforter using Stiles and his werewolf heating pads as pillows.

Stiles has a few questions. First of all, how the hell did they all get in here without him noticing? Secondly, how did they get in her without his dad noticing? Unless his dad let them in last night, which is a definite possibility with the whole supernatural reveal. In that case, why didn't anyone think to tell Stiles about the puppies piling up in his room?

He notices Isaac and Derek's absence almost immediately. It's not like he really expected sourwolf to join in a cuddle pile, but Isaac's his - well, he's his - his friend. He might also be the one who saved him, if Stiles' fuzzy memory is serving him correctly. (Stiles does not snicker while thinking about fuzzy and werewolves, not at all.)

"Oh, good. One of you is awake," Allison says from the doorway. Stiles yelps in surprise (but only a little, like, minuscule).

Allison giggles and Stiles gives her his very best glower. He's sure it's quite menacing from the puppy pile. "I'm not used to people using the door, okay?" he grumbles. "If you come in through the window, I've got nerves of steel."

"Sure. Whatever you say," Allison drawls with a not so reassuring nod.

Stiles huffs indignantly, which only makes Allison giggle again. Scott, with his handy dandy Allison radar (because sure, he could've noticed the change in Stiles' heartbeat, but Stiles knows his best friend), blinks himself sleepily awake. He stares at Stiles then shifts up until he can look at Allison. Cue dopey smile in three, two, one…

"Hey," Scott says with a grin.

"Some of us are tryin' to sleep here," Jackson grouses, face still pressed close into Stiles' buzzed hair - which, not nearly as weird as it could be.

"And whose bed is this?" Stiles demands (though he keeps his voice pitched low because they _are_ trying to sleep).

"Ours," Erica provides helpfully from the floor, following it up with an inelegant yawn.

Under his breath, Stiles grumbles, "I hate you all."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Lydia singsongs across their legs, leaning up to poke at Stiles' elbow.

Boyd shifts on the floor and murmurs, "I thought we were sleeping?"

"Allison," Scott says oh so helpfully, stretching out one arm to her (after some uncomfortable wriggling against Stiles - seriously, does nobody remember the bruised and battered to hell by an alpha werewolf with freaky toe claws thing?).

"Is actually here to - " The sheriff stops whatever his thought was to stare at the pile of sleepy teenagers in Stiles' room.

Stiles shrugs helplessly and offers, "Werewolves?"

"Right..." His father shakes his head, manages an amused huff. (and oh god, Stiles is going to _die_ of embarrassment once he regains movement of his limbs) "Well. I sent Allison up here to tell you that brunch is ready whenever you want it." He pauses. "Or whenever you can move. Whichever comes first."

Stiles wriggles until he can sit up, despite the grumpy protests from the wolves sandwiching him in. "There isn't bacon in there, is it?" he demands of Allison. "Because you have to watch him. He'll slip the stuff in anywhere he can. Salt and whole milk, too, hence the watching, and - "

"Stiles," his father sighs in (what Stiles hopes is) fond exasperation. "Just come down and see for yourself, would you?" He stares at the cuddling teenager for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching upward. "And you lot make sure he doesn't over exert himself."

_"Dad,"_ Stiles whines.

His father just gives him a look before he turns on his heel down the hallway. Stiles crosses his arms with a huff, only to have them peeled away from his chest by Lydia, now perched upright on top of his legs. When did she wake up, anyway?

"When you were thinking about Isaac," Erica informs him from the floor. She stands upward and stretches her arms wide over her head. "I'd recognize that pitter patter of your heartbeat anywhere."

Stiles flushes because he's supposed to have control over the whole talking thing by now. Also, his heart so doesn't do that, that pitter-patter thing. It doesn't matter what she says.

Lydia laughs and pats his cheek. "You broadcast your emotions, Stilinski. Don't even need your babble to know what you're thinking."

"She's kind of right, dude," Scott pipes up from beside him. Stiles gives him a rough shove to send him over the side of the bed. Scott uses it as an excuse to practically skip over to Allison and drape himself over her like a giant puppy dog (and if he starts licking her face, Stiles swears he's going to throw up all over his comforter).

"Yep, and everyone with half a brain can see how you feel about Isaac," Jackson says, sitting up to pull Lydia off of Stiles' lap and onto his.

Boyd's long since pulled himself off the floor, and he seems to be content to be sitting in Stiles' computer chair with his legs stretched out. When Stiles turns to him for moral support, all he gets is a smirk and an affirming nod.

"Did I mention that I hate you all?" Stiles grouses loudly.

"Yes. And as previously pointed out, you're a liar," Allison provides from the doorway, hands petting at Scott's back while he tries achieving liquid form.

"Hate. Hate. So much hate. Have I not taken enough abuse?" Stiles demands, waving dramatically at the bandages around his ribs.

"Nope," Erica says, popping the consonant at the end of the word. "You're pack. Means we get to make fun of you all we want."

Stiles asks, "Can I put to that vote?"

"All in favor of making fun of Stiles for the rest of eternity?" Lydia asks. Every hand in the room but Stiles' flies up, even Scott's from where he's pretty much inhaling Allison's hair. Seriously, bro, come up for air. Also, you should be support your _bro._

"All in favor of never getting my cooking ever again?" Stiles tries.

"No more mashed potatoes?" Scott whimpers, and ooh, that actually made him lift his head! Success!

"Please," Jackson scoffs. "As if you could actually keep that up. You like taking care of us too much." He pauses, then adds hesitantly, "Right?"

Stiles - can't cross his arms over chest while Lydia's watching, so he sticks to jutting out his chin. "I'm told I'm quite stubborn when I want to be."

Boyd shakes his head. "Yeah, but we can just talk to Isaac, you know."

Jackson relaxes at that. "Yeah. We all know you can't say no to Lahey, Stilinski."

Stiles (in firm denial and extremely eager to change the subject) sputters, "Are you ever gonna call me by my first name?"

"Are you ever going to tell us what it is?" Lydia points out.

"ARE YOU EVER GONNA COME DOWN FOR BRUNCH?" the sheriff yells from downstairs.

* * *

Fifteen minutes of good-natured tussling and protesting later, the group finally makes it downstairs. The sheriff is already at the table, sipping his coffee and pointedly eating a thick slice of bacon on his plate. Stiles opens his mouth to protest, then finds his jaw dropping further by the sight of Derek Hale in his kitchen.

Derek Hale is in his kitchen. Making bacon on the stove. For his father.

Oh, and did he fail to mention the fluffy apron at his waist?

"Not one word, kid," his father remarks dryly. "It's turkey bacon."

Stiles' mouth clicks shut. "Well, that's good. Good. Good like Derek's fashion sense."

"I'll burn your helping," Derek growls from the stove.

"Low blow, dude," Stiles grouses. "I've been _injured."_

Derek raises his ever disdainful eyebrows (though those are totally his worrying eyes, Stiles just knows it).

Whatever witticism Stiles was about to spout off gets caught in his throat when he sees Isaac setting the table. Isaac is in his house, just right over there. Crap, crap, crap, his cheeks are going red and there's probably cartoon hearts flying around his head right now.

Derek gives him a smirk, and Stiles would punch him if he wasn't busy being a complete and total dorkstar. Which is Scott's job, what the hell? Stiles isn't the dorkstar; he's the man with the plan, or the human punching bag. Not the lovestruck teenager, who - _oh, shit_ Isaac can probably smell his internal monologue from here.

"Turkey bacon!" Stiles blurts, stumbling over to his chair at the table. "That's, that's good. Goes well with the whole food theme we have going. The brunch theme. Yes."

He can hear the rest of the pack laughing behind him, which is bad enough. Then he catches the look Derek is giving him. It's a look, and it's not _fair._ Derek Hale is not allowed to smirk at him like that. He's can only leak out massive amounts of angst or growl angrily while throwing Stiles into walls.

His body twitches at the reminder of any sort of physical pain, his ribs pulling with the action and making him wince. Isaac is at his side in seconds, face drawn in concern and fingers tracing the inside of Stiles' elbow. "You all right?" he asks softly.

Stiles manages a nod. "Yeah, yeah, just forgot I guess."

"Oh." Isaac's hand doesn't move. Neither do his eyes, bright and fixated on Stiles', and god, Stiles is finding it really hard not to jump and kiss that pink tinged, smiling face.

Except then his dad clears his throat, and Stiles remembers there are, you know, other people in the room. Who all just happen to be laughing at his expense.

Stiles coughs and pulls his arm away from Isaac's grip, hopes his face is marginally less red. "So. Brunch?"

Isaac laughs softly. "Brunch," he agrees.

* * *

Stiles spends the rest of the meal vacillating between chomping through his food and glaring viciously at the rest of the pack. (He's ignoring any time spent looking at or away from Isaac for pretty obvious reasons). The bacon's pretty good, but it's sullied by Derek's smirks at him from across the table. Erica keeps waggling her eyebrows, and Lydia happily informed him how mud healthier he looked this morning, all flushed.

Stiles hates them all. They're the werewolves; _he's_ not supposed to be the pet. Stiles contemplates buying them all food bowls and dog collars. On second though, Lydia can kill him without the advantage of claws, one which Erica will not hesitate to use against him.

It might be worth it to see Derek's face before he dies, though.

(He doesn't spend any amount of time thinking about Isaac in a dog collar, not at all. He's not the shining example of a teenage boy. Doesn't know what you're talking about.

Boyd might, though, if the raised eyebrows are any indication. Damn it.)

Thankfully, the Poke Fun at Stiles and His Hopeless Crush Breakfast comes to a close when the sheriff announces that Stiles needs his rest. Stiles tries to protest the magical healing powers of wolf piles, but holds his tongue at the look on his dad's face. The 'I came too close to losing you and I'm not at all sure about all of these werewolves' face.

Stiles puts on a smile and sees the pack puppies off, gifting them with hugs he's not sure they deserve. They keep giving him these looks he doesn't want to decipher, like the wink from Scott, and the smirk from Jackson. _The winking smirk from Derek._

"I hate you all!" he informs his porch sulkily.

"No, you don't," Isaac chuckles.

_No, but for you, I would make an exception,_ Stiles thinks to himself. He plasters on a not so fake grin and opens his arms to receive his hug. He expects it to last a second or so before Isaac runs off.

Except his hands pull into Stiles' shirt and he holds on. He can't miss the way Stiles' heart pounds, the scent he must be giving off, and yet Isaac just doesn't let go. Stiles is - confused, but he's not exactly going to argue, is he?

When Isaac finally pulls away, he smiles with his whole face, not just his mouth like he usually does, and softly promises, "I'll be back later, okay?"

Stiles nods and dumbly watches him walk off. He is not staring at Isaac's ass when his father creeps up behind him and sets his hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"I take it you don't like the Martin girl anymore?" he asks lightly.

Stiles gives a strangled squeak in reply.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day watching reruns of _I Love Lucy._ A member of the pack calls every few hours, but they don't actually come around again. It's for the best, Stiles supposes, since he's only very narrowly avoided being grounded for the next, oh, forever, what with the supernatural reveal. He still loses jeep privileges for the next few weeks, though, and his dad makes him swear to buy real bacon at the grocery store for the next month (Stiles had to get his cleverness from somewhere).

Evening rolls around, and the sheriff decides that it's bedtime for the pair of them. "Do your homework, take your pain meds and then off to bed with you," he says firmly in his work voice.

"I know, Dad," Stiles sighs.

The sheriff stares at him a moment, then tugs his son against his chest, squeezing greedily and yet ever careful of Stiles' ribs. Stiles squeezes back just as tightly.

"I know, Dad," he whispers.

His father ruffles Stiles' non-existent hair before heading down the hall, both manfully pretending they didn't just have a moment.

Stiles trudges down the hall into his room and looks at his desk. Remarkably, that essay he needs to write about The Catcher in the Rye doesn't look inviting whatsoever. He kicks off his shoes, doesn't bother with the rest of his clothes and flops backward onto his bed, eyes drifting closed.

Someone knocks at his window, and Stiles doesn't yelp or jump three feet at the sound (but if he did, it would be in a very manly fashion, he assures you).

Isaac laughs at him from the window, and Stiles manages a glare.

"So much for your nerves of steel?" Isaac teases when Stiles unlatches the window.

"Shut your pie-hole," Stiles grumbles.

Isaac just laughs. He's laughing at Stiles, and it's still adorable. This is a problem. A code red. Blue. Mauve? Maybe Stiles has been watching too much Doctor Who…

But seriously. This is all _mauve_ and, and _dangerous._ This was entering a territory Stiles really wasn't sure he wanted to. He's much happier on this side of the River of Denial. It's big and scary out there, filled with other fish that Stiles doesn't want because he only wants the one fish (and this metaphor has gone on way too long, holy crap).

"I didn't say any of that aloud, did I?" Stiles asks Isaac while he shuts the window.

"Any of what?" Isaac sprawls out next to Stiles on the bed like he belongs there, sock-clad feet and hands behind his head. He has this little smirk on his face, too, and okay, Stilinski, you can stop staring, since the werewolf can smell everything you've ever felt ever.

"Just... Ever since the whole, broken ribs bit, I've, uh... Spouted things off without realizing them." Stiles rubs the back of his head and gives a self-deprecating chuckle. "Though I kind of did that before, I guess."

Isaac gets this look on his face and Stiles really doesn't know how to decipher it. Only that it looks - decidedly not good. "What? What is it? Oh, I _did_ say some of that aloud, didn't I? About the mauve and dangerous and - "

"You said I light up your world or some shit," Isaac interrupts.

Stiles stares at him with his mouth open like a fish. "Wait, _what?!"_he squeaks.

Isaac has the decency to blush. That's good, because Stiles is really freaking out right now because - wait, no. Blushing does not suddenly decrease the what.

"You - " Isaac bites his lip. "Back when you were - In the forest. You said - I don't think you knew you were saying it, but you said - "

"I said you light up my world or some shit? I really - I said that? Like, with my words and everything?"

Isaac looks up. Even when Stiles is fighting back hyperventilation, those blue eyes still manage to distract him, make him lose his train of thought…

Allow Isaac to take him off guard (even more) when he asks, "Did you mean it?"

For what feels like the thousandth time this night, Stiles squeaks, _"What?"_

"I... Before, you didn't mean to say it, and you were delirious and I... Did you really mean it?"

Stiles wonders if a god will strike him down if he prays hard enough. Maybe Thor with the whole lightning bit; that'd be cool. Or maybe someone can turn him into a tomato because his face is certainly red enough for it. "Couldn't you smell it on me?" he manages. "I mean, this whole time, and then there was the hug, when you, you kept - touching me, and I thought - I think - " He gesticulates wildly, struggling with the simply ability to form words.

Isaac sits up and slides his way forward, moving quickly until he's far, far too close.

"Personal space, dude," Stiles sputters.

"Tell me," Isaac whispers, his breath ghosting Stiles' cheek. "Please? Can you just - for real, this time?"

Stiles closes his eyes and struggles to remember that breathing is a good thing, even when Isaac is _right there._

Words are also good when Isaac is _right freaking there._

As a matter of fact, any normal brain function might be nice because Isaac is _still. right. there._

Slowly, Stiles forces his eyes open. Nope, those baby blues are still inches away. Fuck. Stiles stares and Isaac stares right back. The air feels thick, like, bring out the steak knife so you can have a slice of this tension. He doesn't know when his hands started shaking.

Stiles forces a breath, opens his mouth -

And closes it again.

And then he opens his mouth -

And closes it.

Because words. Brain. Kaput.

Isaac seems to take this as some sort of sign, his eyes turning downcast. Slowly, he starts to pull away, and while Stiles is still freaking out, he's pretty sure that isn't acceptable. He makes an embarrassing noise in the back of his throat, latches onto Isaac's wrists and tugs before he knows what he's really doing.

_Whoa._ Kissing. That is a thing that is happening. At least, Stiles thinks it is? His mouth is pressed sloppily against Isaac's, at least. That's kissing, right? Maybe he should pull away and see if Isaac agrees with him, because he's really not sure, and -

Oh. Nope, that wasn't kissing.

_This_ is kissing.

Isaac's hand cups the back of his neck, and though he's ever careful of Stiles' ribs, his lips are really going to town. It's all restless heat and endless mouth movements, open, close, swallowing up the soft whimpering. Oh, god, that's a _tongue,_ that is _definitely_ a tongue, they got to _tongue_ already, and -

Isaac had a question, didn't he?

Stiles should really answer that.

In a moment.

Or maybe now, once he remembers to breathe.

"I meant it," he gasps against Isaac's mouth. "I fucking meant it. You - I think I maybe kind of love you?"

Isaac grins widely, and it's like Ode to Joy and the Hallelujah Chorus had a baby and it's singing out in Stiles' head, and whoa, that is the most freaking beautiful smile Stiles has ever fucking seen.

He kind of wants to kiss it. Like now

"Can I - ?"

The words are barely off his lips before Isaac is crashing into him again. Huh, maybe this is really kissing?

Stiles still isn't really clear.

"Me, too," Isaac murmurs between their mouths. "Me, too. You - You just - "

"You can write me a sonnet later, dude," Stiles whines. "But I'm glad to hear it. More kissing, now? Maybe?"

Isaac chuckles. Hey, this is make-out with Stiles time, no laughing allowed. No talking, no laughing, just - Stiles bites at Isaac's lower lip and the other boy _gasps_. Then he nips back at Stiles' lower lip, sucks it between his teeth and pulls and -

And Stiles thinks he has it now.

_This_ is definitely kissing.

Eventually, they have to stop the kissing, because, as Stiles learns, there can't be a lot of touching with the broken ribs and bruises part. His lips are bruised, too, at least. Stiles thought that was only true in romance novels, but his mouth definitely feels swollen and tingly. It's kind of awesome, actually.

He ends up sprawled under the covers with Isaac, like they always have before. Except this time when Stiles wraps his arms around Isaac's shoulders, he doesn't have any intentions of letting go. This time, Isaac presses kisses to his collarbone, and Stiles sticks his face in Isaac's hair and breathes him in.

"If I wasn't convinced before," Stiles murmurs, "the kissing definitely did it. I kind of love you."

Isaac huffs out a laugh. It tickles a little bit, but Stiles doesn't mind in the slightest.

"I kind of love you, too," Isaac says.

The words make his heart grow three sizes in his chest. Stiles thinks he understands, now, why Isaac had to hear him say it. Why he would need to know for sure. Because it's one thing to know and another to _know._

Stiles might not be making any kind of normal sense right now. He blames it on the kissing.

"Dude, breathing is for wimps," Stiles tries. "We should totally... Totally get back on the kissing thing. Like forever."

Isaac smiles and Stiles can feel it, and oh, that's nice. "Shut up, Stiles," Isaac says.

"I'm taking my 'I love you' back," Stiles grumps.

Isaac wriggles upward to press a soft kiss to Stiles' lips, and while it's not exactly kissing, Stiles can't help but lean greedily into it anyway.

"I said shut up," Isaac whispers into his mouth.

"Kay." Stiles yawns while they settle once more, tightens his grip on Isaac and buries his nose in earthy scented curls. After a moment, he murmurs, "...I still love you."

"Sleep," Isaac mumbles.

Stiles does.


End file.
